Proving Ground
by Bookwrm389
Summary: "Jak couldn't tear his eyes away from Damas, unable to fathom how he could be so calm when he might be minutes away from dying at the hands of one of his own warriors." A king must be subject to the same laws as his people. And in Spargus, the arena is one of those laws.


Proving Ground

"He's lost it, I'm telling ya," Daxter said conversationally, though he was speaking just a little too fast to truly be at ease. It showed in his nervous, twitchy motions and the way his tail lashed from side to side as he paced around at Jak's feet. "Don't even try to argue with me, Old Sandy has officially _lost_ it. What the heck does he think he's doing, pullin' something like this?"

Jak had been wondering the same thing, but he allowed Daxter to express anxiety for them both, preferring to watch as the volcanic pit gradually filled with spectators from their high vantage point. The murmuring from all the Wastelanders seemed just a little louder this time around, just a little more anticipatory, but that could have been his imagination. It wasn't like Jak ever paid attention when it was him and Daxter in the arena.

But this time, it wasn't. The one who faced judgment to day was none other than the king of Spargus.

"You still don't get it, do you, chili pepper?" Sig asked with a trace of a sigh. He would be the one to oversee this arena match and had taken his place on the throne accordingly. Maybe it was supposed to be a courtesy that he was allowing them to view the battle from the best seats in the house, but Jak suspected Sig merely wanted him in his line of sight at all times so he wouldn't pull something stupid. Like jump into the arena with Damas. Which he had half a mind to do now.

"Don't get _what?_" Daxter snapped. He halted his pacing long enough to give Sig a proper glare. "All I get is that this entire desert is ruled by lunatics! Lunatics with guns! This place really is a lost cause if you can just up and throw your king to the wolves like this—"

"Nobody forced him to go through with it," Sig reminded them yet again. "Look, you know what Damas was before he was banished, you know how he ended up here. Nowadays, he takes any whisper of rebellion seriously. And if somebody decides to come at him with a knife to the back, even the metaphorical kind, he don't take too kindly too that. But...it's more than that, cherries."

"Enlighten us, O Wise One," Daxter hissed, his attitude only growing worse as the tension rose.

Sig leaned forward, fingers drumming on the armrest. "Spargus is a city of warriors. People out here don't respect popularity, they respect strength of body and mind. Damas has worked hard to make sure it stays that way so we don't fall into the same trap as Haven. The king's gotta stay on the same level as his people, which means he also has to be subject to our laws. The arena is one of those. It's a constant battle for him to prove he belongs on this throne."

"And what if he loses?" Jak said quietly, fixing the Wastelander with a hard look. "Does the moron who got in a lucky shot get the throne next?"

Sig cast him a grim smile. "Not without goin' through me first. And trust me, if Damas gets killed, that bastard ain't walkin' away from what I'll do to him."

_Unless I get to him first,_ Jak thought vindictively and turned his attention back to the arena just as the doors to the holding chambers began to crank open. The challenger emerged from the right, swaggering into view with that same arrogant look he had worn earlier that day in the streets of Spargus. When he had stood in the middle of a crowd and bellowed insults at a stone-faced Damas, calling him coward and worse for not having the foresight to combine their numbers with the marauders and wage war on Haven. The sickening thing was that enough people had agreed with him to prevent the dissenter from getting shot outright, even as many more rose to Damas' defense. A riot had been seconds from breaking out when Damas had spoken two words that stopped everyone in their tracks and made Jak's blood run cold.

_Challenge accepted._

To the left, Damas stepped into the open, and the arena was suddenly a much louder place. Hundreds of voices rose in support of their king, cheering and chanting his name, and the nearly indiscernible boos and hisses could have been taken for spitting lava in the volcanic pit. Jak moved closer to the edge, gripping the iron handrail convulsively and heedless of the blisters from the heated metal. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Damas, unable to fathom how he could be so calm when he might be minutes away from dying at the hands of one of his own warriors.

The two fighters faced one another, each clad in well-fitted armor and bearing only the hand-to-hand weapons they had chosen, guns having been banned from this particular match. The challenger wielded twin swords, one in each hand, while Damas carried his staff of Precursor metal and a sturdy mace strapped to his hip. Neither man attacked yet, forced to wait while Sig rose and announced each of their names and their reasons for standing in the arena today. As if anyone needed a reminder.

Jak's ears were numb to it all. He was already shaking from repressed adrenaline, his mind feeding him gruesome images of Damas bleeding on the arena floor as his assailant moved in for the kill. And he knew with sudden certainty that Sig would have to break both his legs to keep him from intervening because it wasn't in him to stand back and let this happen. Damas had become too important to him, a leader he respected, a mentor he could learn from. Call it blind devotion, call it childish hero worship, but being in his presence made Jak humble for the first time in his life. He admired the man, not only for what he had made of himself, but for what Damas had made of _him_.

If he died here...Precursors, if he died here...

Damas glanced in his direction, locking eyes with him across that great distance. Jak couldn't completely erase the fears from his face and he didn't try, just watched the Wasteland king helplessly. And Damas gave him that familiar wry look, the one that said Jak was either being too stubborn or too arrogant to see the big picture. At Jak's confusion, the smirk widened into a grin and cobalt eyes flashed determination.

_Does this look like the face of a man who's about to die?_

No, it didn't. Far from it. Jak eased up his grip on the rail, allowing a flicker of a smile, though he was not entirely reassured. _Don't die, Damas. Just don't die. I still need you_.

Damas nodded ever so slightly, and anyone else watching probably took it as an acknowledgement of the rules as Sig had stated them. The challenger was already shooting furtive glances at Damas, already anticipating the fight. Damas merely waited, staff in hand, waiting as only a seasoned warrior who had seen a lifetime of battles could.

"_Let the match begin!_" Sig roared, his words rebounding in the pit. The challenger struck without warning, one of his swords arcing for Damas' neck. Damas dodged and brought his staff up just in time to stop the other sword from gutting him. He leapt back as he blocked a flurry of savage strikes, unable to do anything but defend for the moment. Shouts and screams of fear and delight swept through the audience like a roll of thunder. Daxter was already well into his own vicious rant, gleefully insulting everything from the challenger's mother to his fighting style to his haircut.

Jak left them to it. All his concentration was on the flow of the battle, the deadly dance of staff and blade. It was a novel experience to be seeing it from the outside, and it occurred to him now that he had never actually seen Damas fight. Of course it was a given that Damas _could _fight, considering he led a nation of warriors, but watching him now, it was like he had been born for the battlefield. He seemed to flow from one stance to another, evading attacks with a nimbleness that belied his powerful build, never trying the same combination twice. Jak found himself unconsciously breathing a little harder, fists clenched and heart pounding. His legs ached to jump and kick and run, his soul longed to pit himself against an adversary that he wasn't sure he could beat if only to revel in the challenge and the primal joy of combat.

What would it be like, Jak wondered suddenly, to spar against Damas as he sometimes did with Sig?

...would he ever get the chance to find out?

The challenger's face twisted into a snarl, frustrated by his opponent's aptitude. He lashed out yet again, his blades almost a blur. Damas only just blocked the double strike, the muscles in his arms cording under the force. The lava was only a few steps behind him now, and the challenger bore down on him, trying to force Damas off the edge. He feinted a kick, knocked the staff aside and thrust his swords forward as if to run him through. Jak almost didn't see what happened next because it was like Damas simply slid out of their path, sidestepping like a crab. He hooked his fingers in the challenger's armor and dropped on his back, turning the motion into a backward roll that ended with the other man tumbling toward the edge.

The arena went wild, assuming it to be over, but the challenger caught himself on the very edge, clinging for dear life as he lost one sword to the lava just below his dangling feet. He shouted something that was lost in the roar of the crowd and chucked his remaining sword at Damas, who rolled aside as it skittered across the platform. Damas snatched up his staff with the clear intention of ending the battle once and for all. But just as he was about to strike, the challenger seized his ankle and caused him to lose his balance and fall. The other man took the chance to crawl back onto solid ground and throw himself on top of Damas. They grappled for the staff, rolling around and striking each other whenever an opening presented itself. Jak winced when one ruthless punch broke Damas' nose and caused blood to gush all over his face. This couldn't go on much longer. Sooner or later, one of them would get in a decisive blow and then it would be over in an instant.

"Deep breath, Jak," Sig murmured behind him. "He'll be fine. He won't let himself go down here."

"How can you be sure?" Jak retorted, a desperate edge to his words.

Sig was silent for a moment, still intent on the battle below. "I ever tell you cherries how the arena matches first came about? It was all a fluke, actually. Damas wasn't banished alone, a whole slew of his followers came with him into the desert, either by force or by choice. I was one of 'em."

"Which?" Daxter asked smartly. "By force or choice?"

"Choice," Sig replied, lips twitching in amusement. "Damas had his monks and their scrolls with him, and they eventually led us here, to these old ruins by the ocean. He said we'd build a new home here, raise it with our own hands, and it'd be better than anything Praxis took from us. Course there were some that disagreed with that plan. There was this one guy, this damn angry brute that tried to rally the rest of us to follow him back to Haven. Didn't take to the notion of desert life, I'm guessin'."

The two men in the arena broke away and scrambled to their feet, the staff now in the hands of the challenger. He taunted the Wasteland king, gloating like he had already won, and for the first time Damas retorted angrily as he hefted his mace in one hand. But the staff had such a long reach that the only way for Damas to gain an advantage was to close in and disarm him, something that was looking more unlikely by the minute. Jak leaned forward, hardly listening to the rest of Sig's story.

"He and Damas went at it pretty hard with words at first. But when the guy went so far as to strike him, Damas yelled at everyone to back off, including me. They fought right here on the edge of this crater, and Damas threw the bastard in. After that, Damas turned to the rest of us and said now was our chance to walk away. Those who chose to stay could either help him build Spargus or join the dead guy in the crater. You can guess what most of us chose. Over the years, the arena evolved from just a place where disputes are settled to a proving ground for the entire city."

"Don't make it any less zany," Daxter muttered. He clambered up Jak's arm to his shoulder, the familiar weight helping to ground him as the fight went on. The challenger charged, driving Damas back with wild swings that showed he had very little experience with anything other than a blade. Damas kept his guard up until the other man overextended himself, and he rushed in and slammed the mace down on his wrist. The audible snap of bone breaking even reached Jak's ears. The staff hit the ground as the challenger stumbled back and fell, nearly landing on top of his abandoned sword. Faster than a blink, he seized it and stabbed the tip of the blade deep into Damas' thigh, wrenching a cry from him as well. Damas fell to his hands and knees, and the challenger raised the sword high, ready to cut him down.

"_Damas!_" Jak bellowed, hearing the name echoed by many more throats besides his. At the last moment, Damas knocked the blade aside and struck a brutal blow to his opponent's head. The challenger crumpled, either dazed or unconscious, the sword hitting the ground with a clatter. Damas knelt above him and brought the mace down again and again, an animalistic snarl torn from his throat as the skull cracked like an egg and blood spattered over his hands and chest. He stopped only when the body was no longer twitching, breathing heavily. Favoring his injured leg, he pushed himself to his feet and stared down at the vanquished man, still clutching the mace in a death grip.

Jak breathed, his heart daring to beat again, and the Wastelanders exploded in celebration. They clapped, they stomped their feet, they made enough noise for a crowd of thousands rather than the paltry hundreds gathered. Damas raised his head and smiled, seeming to draw strength from their support. Carrying himself like a king, he gathered up his staff and limped over to the platform that Sig had already lowered to his level. He looked like hell when he reached the dais just below the throne. His face was a mess of bruises and blood, and his leg shook with the effort of holding him up, but his eyes were bright and sharp when he looked at Jak. Damas let a ghost of a smirk cross his face before he turned to Sig.

"Well? Have I passed?"

Beaming, Sig tossed Damas his fully formed battle amulet. "You should know the answer to that. Damn good fight. I got no qualms 'bout giving this back to you."

"Thank you, Sig," Damas said, his fatigue a weak thing compared to his triumph. "Now get your ass off my throne."

* * *

><p>Days after the arena match, Jak woke earlier than usual and found himself too restless to go back to sleep. He left Daxter still snoring on the mattress and took a walk down to the beach where he could see the sun rising over the bluffs and listen to the surf. The Wastelanders kept to desert time so there were plenty of people about at this early hour, hurrying to finish their chores before the sun got high and the heat became unbearable. Market vendors were in the middle of setting up their stalls, raising the awnings to provide shade, and Jak paused a moment to pick up an extra support pole leaning forgotten against a rock.<p>

"Mind if I borrow this?"

The man gave him an odd look, but shrugged and waved him on. Jak tossed the pole idly from hand to hand as he trekked down the rocks to the small strip of sandy beach. It was light and splintered in places, but sturdy enough for practice. It might even hold up to striking actual targets.

With only a quick look around to make sure nobody was paying attention, Jak braced his feet apart in the soft sand and gripped the pole as he had seen Damas wield his staff that day, one hand palm up and the other down. Breathing in the salty air, he stepped forward and swatted an imaginary enemy, trying to gain a feel for the unfamiliar fighting style. Jak didn't use weapons often, unless bashing people with the butt of his gun counted, but it couldn't be _that _hard to muddle through. Damas had certainly made it look easy. The staff had almost been an extension of his arms and legs, lightning quick with far more technique involved than brute strength. Jak thrust straight forward at gut level and threw in a kick, spinning to parry another pretend attacker and drive him back...

"You know, it works a lot better when you actually have someone to aim at."

He started at the dry statement and spotted Damas standing on the rocks above him with his hand on his hip. Jak recovered hastily from his initial surprise and planted his staff in the sand, mirroring his pose. "I kind of doubt anyone here's gonna let me wail on them like a punching bag."

"That depends on who you ask," Damas countered. He stepped onto the sand and limped closer, leaning heavily on his own staff. Noticing Jak's concerned look, he touched the bandages on his thigh. "I'm fine. Light eco does wonders for speeding the healing process. It's better for me to move around to keep the muscles from stiffening."

Jak nodded, eyes flicking to the staff of Precursor metal. "Who taught you how to fight like that?"

"A very small man with an interesting sense of humor," Damas said, chuckling a bit. "He was a very good fighter and teacher, but I think he enjoyed walloping his students a bit _too_ much. I learned more from my bruises than I ever did from him."

Jak had a sudden mental image of Samos chasing an adolescent Damas around and smacking him with his cane, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Luckily, Damas didn't seem to notice as he moved past him and settled into his own stance facing Jak. "You need to keep your hands further apart and commit your whole body to the attack. Think of how you punch an enemy, throwing your weight behind it. This is much the same. Now come at me! Let me see what you've got."

Taken aback, Jak only hesitated a moment before he mimicked Damas' stance, scanning for an opening. He darted forward and swung toward his head, but Damas deflected it easily, their weapons meeting with a sharp _crack_. Jak pivoted to avoid a counterattack and landed a jab in his gut. Damas barely even flinched as he sidestepped and let Jak tumble forward, thwacking him in the kidney as he went.

"That's it?" Damas scoffed, but Jak could tell he wasn't truly displeased. "Surely you can hit harder!"

Jak skidded to a halt and huffed out a laugh. "Just testing you!" he retorted. He was about to attack again when Damas looked over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow.

"Hm...an audience."

Jak glanced behind him, also bemused when he saw a group of kids ranging from three to seven gathered on the rocks. Some of them seemed embarrassed at getting caught, but their curiosity overcame their awe of the Wasteland king. Jak studied them all. The children of Spargus were a tough bunch, already deeply tanned and building wiry muscles in preparation of a hard life. A life of great peril, and also great freedom.

"Their time will come soon enough," Damas said, and when Jak looked back, he was smiling. "Shall we continue? To be honest, I've wanted to do this ever since the first time I saw you fight."

At that, Jak couldn't hold back a grin. "That makes two of us."

He and Damas faced off for a long, silent moment. At the same time, they charged forth and threw themselves back into the melee with twin battle cries, the clash of their weapons almost drowned out by the crashing surf and the delighted shouts of the children on the rocks.


End file.
